Get Bent (22 page)

When I wake up the next morning, I can see that Turner is desperate to address what happened yesterday. What he doesn't get is that I don't care. I don't care that his manager came and got him, that he was too fucked up too remember but somehow, upset with himself that he didn't. That doesn't change things. He still screwed me, I still got pregnant, and my life still sucked. The what and why and who doesn't even really matter anymore. Now that he knows, that everyone knows, that secret is done and buried for me. Who's to say that when March 15
^th
of next year rolls around that I won't get upset, that I won't lie in a dark room and write terrible poetry? But for now, I have to deal with this crap. I feel like if I do, I can even put the murders behind me, really and truly start over.

Hayden won't have anything to hold over my head anymore, and I can be free. For real this time. I drum my fingers on the table while I wait for Turner to get dressed. He's either so arrogant that he doesn't mind me seeing him naked or thinks that because we fucked, we're like a couple or some shit, and just changes right there in front of me, dick flopping around as he shimmies into his stupid pants.

I watch as he tucks his cock into the denim and zips it tight. Looks pretty uncomfortable from where I'm sitting, but what do I know?

“The sad part about those fucking things is that, other than in the waist, they cup me like a second skin. Don't you think you should at least buy a size up?” Turner sniffles and ignores me, stretching his arms above his head and flashing me the long, lean lines of his body. He's muscular, just friggin' perfect, filled out in all the right places with grooves and valleys and rock hard fucking perfection. I think I actually start to salivate and for sure know there's at least one spot on my body that's getting even wetter. I cross and uncross my legs.

Turner turns around and cups his ass with both hands. I watch his inked fingers curl around his butt and try not to let it get to me. It's just my lack of sex talking. I mean, all that captivity time and then the few days prior where I was dealing with Turner … I'm averaging about once a week here. Not cool. I glance away and rest my chin on my hand.

“Then I wouldn't get these contours, babe,” he says, and I ignore him. I have no clue what goes on inside that idiot's head, but I hope he makes more sense to himself than he does to the rest of the world. I lean forward and peep out the blinds while he slips on a shirt. There's no show tonight, so the crowds are much less concentrated, but it's kind of like watching a tidal wave gather before a storm. It's going to get worse and it's going to crash down around us and there's nothing we can do, so we better get used to it. That's how it feels anyway. “So we're trusting Dax?” Turner asks for the hundredth time. I nod absently, trying to piece things together in my mind. I don't have enough pieces yet to make these parts into a whole, but I will. Eventually, I'll get there. Good thing about Turner Campbell is that he's as stubborn as I am, unwilling to fail. Between us, we'll make things right. Funny how the enemy of my enemy turned out to be my friend, right?

“I want you to find Spencer, see if she's still with the tour. If you can track her down, ask her if she saw whoever it was that delivered that stupid plastic doll head. Dax said she was the one that gave it to him, so maybe she can give us a clue where to start.” I look back at Turner and watch him watching me. His eyes have a look that I can't decipher. No, that I
won't
decipher. I know what he wants, but I refuse to give it to him. He can't just wipe away the history with a sexy, tattooed hand.

I rip a page from my notebook and scribble down Spencer's name and a rough description. Turner takes it and stuffs it in his pocket without even looking at the words.

“I don't like you going off by yourself. I don't trust this Eric fuck.”

I stand up and grab the hoodie that's draped across the table. Maybe it's not smart for me to go out by myself, but if I don't look for Eric, if I hide here all damn day, I won't learn anything. Dax might be right about me going public, but then there'll be other players in this already crowded game. Besides, as soon as I reveal myself, whoever's responsible will know they're being hunted. I don't want them to know that I've switched up the roles, that I'm the one with the poisoned needle and the ropes. My turn to fuck with them.

“And I don't care. I know what I need to do and I'm gonna do it. Get over yourself.” I check to make sure the knife's still tucked inside next to the mace then slip the sweater on, slide my shades into place and hit the parking lot.

Today's an off day, so half the crew and most of the musicians are gone, exploring the city, making complete asses out of themselves. That was never my scene. I'd rather stay in the bus and nurse a beer, write up some new lyrics, but right now, this works in my advantage.

I do what I did before and scout the perimeter, noticing that there are more cops here than usual. Maybe the FBI really is getting involved? I don't see any conspicuous folks in dark suits and glasses, but who knows, they could be anywhere. I don't doubt the power of the police, but what I do know is this: first, red tape sucks and they can't always do what they need to do. Second, the underbelly of the world operates under different principles than the rest of this Godforsaken shit box. I can find things out that they'd never dream. It's all about knowing where to look.

After a couple rounds, the guards start to get weird with me and I abandon that post, poking around the buses until I spot Turner leaning against a bus and talking to Spencer Harmon. She's gazing up at him with wonder sparkling in her brown eyes. Every now and then, he pauses to run his fingers down the smooth skin of her shoulder, teasing her coffee and cream complexion with stars and paw prints. He's using flirtation to get his way with the starstruck roadie. It kind of makes me want to take this knife and chop his balls off.
But only because you're jealous,
my mind whispers as I spin away and start off towards the gate. There are reporters galore, but I figure if I grab a trash bag and follow the other crew members out to the dumpster, they'll leave me alone.

While I'm walking, I hum that tune I was working on before, the one without an ending. It's not over yet, but it feels like it could be, like I could wrap it up with a pretty bow and a kiss.
Yeah, by getting with Turner Campbell. And that's too easy, babe. You can't do that. You just freaking can't.
I get out a cigarette and snap it between my lips as I reach for one of the massive bags of trash.
But, come on, let's be honest, the man can pash hardcore. Best oral sex
ever.
And that was just a tiny taste. I bet he's got all other sorts of nasty.
I try to argue with myself, brain versus pussy. Pussy usually wins, but at least I'm trying here.
Yeah, because he learned it fucking half the girls on the West Coast and a quarter on the East. Do you really want a piece of cake that's been passed around the entire bakery?

I flash my ID badge and slip out the gate without any eyes on me. I'm just another mindless, nameless tagalong with dreams of fame. Or drugs. Yeah, more likely it's about the drugs. I dump the bag, get screamed at by a shift leader about how I fucked up the garbage and the recyclables or some shit and then drift off in a group headed for the local bars. At eleven in the morning. See what I mean? Drugs, alcohol, same difference.

I break off from them at the parking lot, wondering all the while if I'm just doing this to prove to myself that I
can.
That I'm not weak. That getting kidnapped does make me a victim. I was wronged, yeah, but that doesn't show a kink in my character. Right? I hate that I'm even asking myself this question. And I hate that I know going out here alone is a stupid idea. I'm trying to prove something while putting myself in harm's way.

I pause with my arms crossed over my chest and nearly stab someone when a voice sounds from behind me.

“Thought it might be you.”

I spin around and there she is. Hayden fuckin' Lee. Nice. Really. Am I that obvious?

“Huh?” I ask, trying to pitch my voice low, sound strung out. Hayden looks at me and sighs. I hate to admit it, but I think she's
relieved
to see me. How interesting.

“I can read Dax like a book,” she whispers, popping her hip out and flipping her hair. We're in the corner of the lot, shielded from the media by a van and a large pickup, but it's still just a matter of time until someone sees her and she gets swarmed. I notice she's got on some Mrs. Turner Campbell bracelets. Hmm. “Been chasing after him for enough time that I can see it. He's all lit up like a Christmas tree, Mi.”

“Don't call me Mi,” I whisper to her, narrowing my eyes behind the shades, eyeing her hot pink pants and sparkly halter with distaste. “And stop dressing to piss me off. I don't like it. You look like a fucking hooker.” Hayden doesn't laugh, doesn't smile, doesn't even look angry with me.

“I was going to get you out.” I laugh, harsh and bitter. It echoes off the pavement and sounds like a flock of angry birds.

“Before or after I was gang raped?” I ask with a wink she can't see. I reach in my pocket and finger the knife, just in case. I almost wish she'd attack me, so I could put her down. She's been traumatizing me for years, treating me like a slave.
Never again.
“Thanks but no thanks.”

“Katie's going to suffer for that, you know?” she tells me with a little sniffle. She's obviously spent her morning being productive, snortin' some high quality coke. I tell myself I'm not envious at all. Turner and me, I know we're both due for a little withdrawal, some shakes, night sweats, cravings for days. I shift on my feet and glance around, making sure we're still alone out here in the hot as shit sun. It's
March
for God's sake and this place feels like it's on the face of the sun. If you open your mouth a little and taste the air, you can feel the storm waiting. I'm just hoping we don't get any tornadoes. Hate tornadoes.

“How's that?” Hayden's turn to look around, eyes flickering from side to side.

“Naomi, you and I have both done bad things in the past.” She sniffles again and focuses her blue eyes on the pavement at her feet. Her voice is much softer now, a little scratchy. There's a hint of that rock goddess in there somewhere. She really does have a beautiful voice. It's just hard to hear sometimes with all the bullshit clogging my ears. “But we did it because we had to, for a greater good.” I have no clue where she's going with this, so I wait. “You understand why I didn't let you go, right?”

“No, Hayden. I don't. Why don't you explain it to me in small words.” She looks up quickly and stares straight at me, eyes wide and swimming with decisions. Hayden Lee's never really been all that good at making them.

And then it happens so fast, hands grabbing me from behind, Hayden coming at me from the front. An arm wraps my throat and presses against my windpipe, closing my trachea and blocking off my air supply. My hands come up and I throw a quick punch at Hayden's face, hitting her tiny nose with a crunching satisfaction. She stumbles back with a scream and blood spurts out in a bright red fountain, staining her shirt and turning the fabric beneath the sequins see-through with wetness. Her nipples stand at attention.

My next move is aimed behind me as I smash my borrowed boot down on my attacker's instep. The man grunts, but he doesn't let go.
Shit.
I try to make as much noise as possible, flail around and elbow back, trying to either get the guy to let go or try to attract the attention of the mass media and the fangirls and boys that are flitting around the gates. We're placed just so here, near a stand of well manicured trees, obviously not native to this area, big flowering suckers placed for aesthetic purposes. They keep us nice and shaded, hidden in beautiful darkness.

“I am so done with this shit,” Hayden whimpers from where she's collapsed on the ground. I notice she doesn't try to get up and help. Either she doesn't care what happens back here or she's supremely confident in my attacker's skills.

I decide that enough is enough and reach for the knife, slamming it back into the side of the man behind me. He grunts again, but this time, he lets go and I stumble forward, spinning to face him with hot red dripping from the end of the blade.

My face blanches and I drop the knife.

Oh. Shit.

I just stabbed a fuckin' cop.

“Oh my … God,” I whisper as the man turns and starts to run. He doesn't let his wound slow him down, just takes off into the trees with red trailing behind him in tiny dots. My knees feel weak, but I maintain my footing, trying not to be sick. A split second later, I hear Turner's voice behind me.

“I don't think so, princess,” he says, breathing hard. I turn to find him holding Hayden back, arms wrapped around her like a lover's embrace. “She tried to hit you in the back of the head.”

“You don't fucking understand,” she growls, but she doesn't try to fight him, just stands there with hazelnut hair dripping around her wild face. “I don't want to do this, but I
have
to. If I don't, I'm as fucked as all the rest of you are.” I look over my shoulder for the cop but don't see him. He was young, probably early twenties, with white blonde hair and pale eyes, skin ruddy with an old sunburn. I'd probably recognize him if I saw him again.